


through her eyes

by kiwiibiird



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Ciri is the light of my life, Ficlet Collection, Found Family, It's about the tenderness, M/M, Other, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Post-Season/Series 01, Reminiscing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:34:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27482797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiwiibiird/pseuds/kiwiibiird
Summary: Ciri looks to the witcher, giggling. “Did you know someone wrote a song about you?”Or, a collection of moments from Ciri’s travels with Geralt, and a look into Geralt and Jaskier’s relationship from her point of view.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 22
Kudos: 304





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first adventure into writing fic for the witcher. Kudos and kind words are always appreciated <3

They hear the song in a tavern. 

The bard begins it when he spots the two of them hiding at the corner table, Ciri scarfing down as much food as she possibly can while Geralt takes swigs from the metal tankard the barmaid had skittishly passed over to him with the food.

Ciri has never heard the tune before, but it seems like everyone else in the tavern most certainly has. The atmosphere becomes bright, jovial, and a bewildered smile grows on her face as the tavern breaks out into song.

Ciri looks to the witcher, giggling. “Did you know someone wrote a song about you?”

“Hm,” is the only answer she gets in reply. Before she can press further, Geralt nudges the plate closer, not paying her curious look any mind. “Finish up. We’ll be leaving soon.”

Ciri huffs, rolling her eyes, but does what she’s told.

They leave it at that. 

Later, when they’ve made camp in the woods, and Geralt is tending to the fire the two of them are perched next to, Ciri decides to say something.

“Did you not like it?” She asks after a long bout of silence, and Geralt looks up where he’s knelt by the fire.

“The bard’s song, earlier in the tavern,” she clarifies, picking absentmindedly at a fraying string on the blanket she’s sat on. She looks up at him. “Did you not like it?”

Geralt hums, rising to move across the camp. He sits down beside her, answering gruffly. “It’s not his song.”

“Who’s song is it then?”

The witcher is quiet for a long while, so long Ciri thinks he’s ignoring her. She gets ready to say as much when he speaks.

“There was a bard,” Geralt tells her. The confession is spoken so low Ciri feels it reverberate in her _bones_. “I traveled with him for a long time.”

“He wrote that song?” She asks. 

“Yes,” there’s a pause, then a long, drawn out sigh, but Ciri thinks she can hear the fondness in it. “Along with many others.”

“What was his name?” Ciri asks, and the man beside her goes quiet once more. She looks up, worried that maybe she’d crossed a line.

Amber eyes stare back at her. Ciri wonders how long it will take before she can see what’s hidden so neatly behind that golden gaze.

“His name was Jaskier.” Geralt answers on a slow exhale, eyes sliding back to stare into the flames.

“Jaskier,” Ciri repeats, testing the name out on her tongue. Her smile comes slow. “I like that name.”

The witcher let out a rumbling hum. Ciri thinks she catches the slight twitch of a smile on his lips.

She smiles to herself, but doesn’t comment on it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Witchers aren't the best at bedtime stories, but Geralt gets an A for effort

"What was he like?" 

Ciri asks the question late into the evening. She’s lying on her bedroll, her own heavy blanket and Geralt’s piled atop her to fend off the evening chill. 

Winter will be here soon-- Ciri can tell by the way the crispness of the air creeps under her blankets. She tightens her hold on them, shivering lightly. 

She also knows, as she’s known for the past month or so, that if winter is close by, then the trek to Kaer Morhen is not far behind. 

Geralt looks up at her from his seat beside the fire, whetstone in hand with one of his swords braced on his knee. 

“You’re supposed to be sleeping,” he says, and Ciri rolls her eyes. 

“I can’t with all that noise you’re making,” she says, and a slight hint of amusement passes over the witcher’s face. She narrows her eyes at him. 

“Sorry,” he says, not sorry at all. Meeting her unamused gaze over the fire, Geralt pointedly slides the whetstone down the sword with a loud _shink_. 

“You’re the _worst_ ,” Ciri groans and flops back down onto her bedroll. She hears Geralt chuckle lowly across the fire, and smiles quietly to herself under the woolen blankets. 

There’s quiet for a moment. Ciri watches as shadows dance across Geralt’s face in the firelight while he works, the obnoxious sound of his whetstone against steel drowning out the natural sounds of the forest surrounding them. 

Occasionally, the light will catch just right, and Ciri will see the faint glint of the white wolf hidden behind his eyes. 

She wonders how many monsters have met their end to that stare. 

“You didn’t answer my question,” she says, and Geralt hums. 

They’ve been traveling together for a while now. So Ciri feels more comfortable than she would have before when she presses him further. “Will you tell me about him?” 

“About who?” 

“Your bard,” she reminds him as she sits up. Her smile is warm and curious, despite the cold chill in the air. “Jaskier. Will you tell me about him?” 

“It’s late,” Geralt answers, not taking his eyes off his sword. “You should get some rest.” 

“Not until you tell me about Jaskier.” 

No answer. 

“Geralt?” 

“Good night, Ciri.” The witcher says, and Ciri rolls her eyes. 

“I’ll just bother you until you tell me,” she threatens casually, and from across the fire Geralt fixes her with a _look_. 

She smiles back, mischievous. “Mousesack always said my greatest skill was being a nuisance.” 

“Of that I have no doubt.”

“Please?” Ciri asks, and Geralt huffs. 

He sits back and regards her for a moment, expression one of mild suspicion. “Why do you want to know about him?” 

“Because,” she says, weighing her words carefully. “You said he traveled with you for a long time. A friend like that must know you better than anyone.” 

“He’s not my friend.” Geralt says. The reaction is immediate, almost reflexive. 

“After all that time?” Ciri laughs in disbelief. “Geralt, how could he _not_ be?” 

The witcher doesn’t answer. 

When she looks, Geralt is watching the fire that’s crackling indifferently between them. His expression is one that Ciri doesn’t quite know how to read yet. 

She’s gotten better at reading the different various hums, the slight pinch between his brow or scrunch of his nose throughout their travels. She thinks she’s becoming quite well versed in the way the witcher expresses himself. 

This is different.

Ciri thinks she’s seen it, once before-- on her grandmother’s face, just before Cintra’s fall. 

When Calathe knew she would have to let what she loved most go for the last time. 

She doesn’t know why, but Ciri thinks those words might have more weight than she’ll ever know. 

“You don’t have to tell me,” she says honestly, and watches Geralt sigh. Something like hope gives a little tug in her chest. “But it would be nice if you did.” 

“If I do,” he says, after a long, long moment, “will you go back to sleep?” 

“Probably not,” she says, and it’s Geralt’s turn to roll his eyes. Ciri giggles at him, and Geralt’s lips finally lift in a fond smile. 

“Fine,” he says, and Ciri beams. 

Quick as she can, Ciri pats the ground beside her. “Come sit by me. I want to be able to hear.” 

While Geralt puts his whetstone and other tools away, Ciri quickly shuffles to get comfortable under her blanket pile. Geralt comes across the camp with his own bedroll tucked under his arm, and begins to set up beside her. 

She takes a small bit of comfort in the fact that he places himself between her and the woods. She’s still not as used to the path as she’d like, and it’s nice to know that Geralt is there to protect her from whatever may come out of the dark. 

Soon enough she’s looking up at Geralt expectantly from under her pile of blankets. She feels a little like she’s about to be read a bedtime story, but keeps the thought to herself. 

“What would you like to know?” Geralt asks, and Ciri thinks carefully for a moment. 

“Well, what did he look like?” She asks, and Geralt blinks. 

“His hair was brown.” 

“Very descriptive,” Ciri nods sagely, and giggles when Geralt rolls his eyes. She pokes his knee, teasing, “you have to tell me more than _that_.” 

“Like what?” Geralt huffs, and Ciri decides to cut him some slack. He’s not a bard, after all. 

“Was his hair long like yours?” She asks.

“It was shorter than mine,” Geralt says, shifting a little, the tension in his shoulders easing some. “Close to shorn on the sides, but longer on top. He always had to sweep it out of his eyes.” 

Ciri smiles at the image. “And his eyes?” She asks, “what color were they?” 

“Blue,” he answers, voice low, and something warm blooms in Ciri’s chest at the sound. 

“Blue like the sky?” 

“No,” he shakes his head. A look passes over his face, like maybe he’s considering it for the first time. “Like forget-me-nots.” 

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen forget-me-nots,” she admits before she’s unable to fight off a small yawn, and Geralt hums. 

“If we see any, I’ll show them to you,” he says, and Ciri smiles quietly to herself at the thought. 

“You said he was a bard,” Ciri says. “How was his singing?” 

“Better than mine,” Geralt says, and Ciri giggles at the thought of the witcher singing _anything_. Geralt smiles too, eyes glinting in the firelight. “He sang often. Played the lute, too. I didn’t mind it. It was-- it was nice.” 

“Was his lute nice?” Ciri asks in a soft whisper, the hour of night finally catching up with her. 

“His first one wasn’t,” Geralt says. “Filavandrel gifted him a new one when it was broken.” 

“Filavandrel?” Ciri’s eyes open at that. She hadn’t realized she’d even closed them. “You’ve met the king of elves?” 

Geralt nods, and chuckles as Ciri gawks at him. “A story for another time.” 

“I’m holding you to that,” she says, and the witcher’s hum echoes through her tired thoughts. Ciri settles down, eyes sliding closed as Geralt watches the firelight go low. 

“Do you miss him?” 

She asks it half awake and falling deeper into sleep. She doesn’t see the way the witcher falters at the question. 

“Get some sleep,” Geralt says, and gently tugs her blanket up more securely by her ears so she doesn’t get cold. “We’ll talk more in the morning.” 

“Alright,” she says, “good night, Geralt.” 

“Good night, Ciri,” is the last thing she hears before she drifts off. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Geralt discovers that bards and princesses are quite similar in their stubbornness

Ciri finds a baby bunny in the snow.

It’s not hurt, not from what she can see, at least. Just dazed, sitting off on the side of the road as the snow piles around it. It’s not afraid of her when she approaches it, nor when she gently runs her index finger over it’s soft ears and back. 

“What’s it doing out here?” She asks, looking back at Geralt, who’s watching her from where he’s stood on the main road, Roach standing patiently at his side. 

“Probably got picked up by something that forgot to eat it,” he answers, peering down at where Ciri is crouched by the snowy gutter. 

“It doesn’t look hurt,” she says. 

It’s incredibly _tiny_ \-- she realizes, it’s eyes are barely even open. Ciri’s heart melts a little when the poor, shivering thing shuffles after her hands when she pulls away, seeking her warmth. 

With gentle fingers, she scoops it up into her hands, carefully cradling it to her chest to shield it from the cold. It squirms a bit in her hands before it settles against her chest, it’s little heartbeat calming some pressed against her own. 

“Abandoned by the mother, then.” The witcher grunts, and Ciri frowns at him.

“You don’t know that,” she says, a little petulant. “It could just be lost.” 

Geralt doesn’t answer, simply raises a brow. 

“Well, _I_ don’t think it’s been abandoned,” she says, ignoring his pessimistic attitude. Gently cradling the small bunny to her chest, she smiles down softly at it. “Just needs some help getting home, is all.” 

“Ciri,” Geralt starts with a sigh. 

“We have to help him,” she pleads, holding the bunny close. “Geralt, he’s just a _baby_.” 

Geralt’s other brow joins the first. “He?” 

“Yes, he.” Ciri says resolutely, lifting her chin up in defiance. “I’ve decided he’s a he. And his name is Jan, so you can address him accordingly.” 

“We have to keep moving,” Geralt says, “we can’t help it.” 

“Him.” She corrects, a tad bit rueful. “Don’t be rude, Geralt. He can _hear_ you.” 

Geralt rolls his eyes, but relents. “It’s best to just leave him be.” 

“Leave him be?” Ciri repeats, appalled, “you mean just let him _die_?” 

Geralt shrugs, and Ciri gasps at him in shock, pointedly covering Jan’s ears so he doesn’t hear such blatantly terrible comments. 

“Fine, then,” Ciri says, and lifts herself to her feet, careful not to jostle Jan. She promptly marches off into the snowy forest. “If you won’t help, then I’ll do it myself.” 

“Ciri, we don’t have time for this,” Geralt huffs, and Ciri looks at him over her shoulder as she continues to walk into the trees. 

“You don’t even know where you’re going.” The witcher calls after her. If she didn’t know any better, she’d say his tone is a bit petulant. Ciri grins at him. 

“I think I can figure it out,” she says, before turning on her heel and focusing on the path ahead of her. 

From behind her, she hears Geralt grumble something about her being “ _as stubborn as the damn bard,_ ” while he makes his way after her, and she bites her lip to keep from smiling too much. 

And so, Ciri makes her way through the winter woods, Jan cradled protectively to her chest with Geralt trailing behind. tries She takes a breath, and tries her best to put her newfound survival skills to use. 

They’ve been on the road for weeks now. Inns and towns were no longer safe, not with the steadily growing Nilfgaardian bounty on Ciri’s head. Making camp off side roads in the freezing woods was their only option. 

She’s still not as used to sleeping on the hard, frigid ground as she’d like to be. But with the heavy blankets piled atop her and a witcher enacting as a shield from the harsh winter winds at night, she finds she’s getting used to it, despite the cold ache in her joints in the mornings. 

Those weeks, much to Ciri’s excitement, were also filled with survival lessons. 

Geralt had been firm in the belief that Ciri needed to know how to take care of herself if they were ever separated. He began to show her the basics-- how to find shelter, clean water, and how to track and hunt. 

So now, she’s looking for rabbit prints in the snow. Geralt is trailing behind, but is letting her do this on her own. She is also resolutely ignoring him and his grumbling.

It takes some time, and a few wrong turns, but eventually, Ciri finds a path of prints that’s clear enough for her to make out in the powdery snow and pine needles. 

She follows it carefully to a little burrow, nestled deep between the twisted roots of an uprooted, dead pine. She stoops down to peer into the burrow, squinting into the little hole for any sign of life. Their fur is barely visible in the dark warmth of the earth, but Ciri can see the glint of small round eyes peeking back at her, and knows she’s done it. 

“Here we are, Jan,” she whispers to the tiny bunny in her hands. “Let’s get you back home where you belong.” 

Crouching down beside the roots, she carefully places Jan back into the burrow. The mother looks weary at first, but after a bit of sniffing Jan rejoins the warmth and cuddle pile of his family. 

Ciri sits back, grinning ear to ear at the sight. She’s quite proud, if she does say so herself.

“I _told_ you I could do it.” She says, grinning brightly back at Geralt from where she’s crouched beside the small bunch of floppy ears and twitching noses hidden safely between the roots. 

“You did,” Geralt hums with a nod, and if the slight turn of his lips is anything to go by when she looks back at him, Ciri would say the witcher is proud of her too. 

“You have to start believing me when I say that I’m a good hunter now.” She insists, and Geralt snorts. 

“I’ll believe it when you bring them back for dinner.” He answers. Ciri gasps at him, and Geralt looks back at her with an amused glint in his yellow eyes. 

“How can you even _say_ that?” She huffs at him, before looking down adoringly at the little huddle of rabbits in their home, “They’re so tiny and sweet.” 

“Taste good, too.” 

“ _Geralt_!” Ciri squawks, and the witcher chuckles as she scowls at him. 

“No one is allowed to eat them,” she declares firmly as she rises to her feet, sweeping some of the snow covered pine needles off her clothes. She looks pointedly at him. “And that includes mean old hungry witchers.” 

“Stubborn,” Geralt says, without any heat, and Ciri smiles back warmly. 

“Like your bard?” She asks, teasing, as they begin the walk back towards Roach and the main road. Geralt takes the lead this time, which Ciri is grateful for. She’s a good tracker, but she’s still learning. 

“Mm. Not quite,” he hums. “Jaskier would’ve begged me to keep it.” 

Geralt’s smile is warm when Ciri’s light laughter drifts through the winter air. 

“Do you think we would have got along?” She asks, glancing up at him with a bright curiosity that the world has yet to snuff out, and hopefully, never will. 

“Yes,” the witcher answers after a beat, and Ciri feels warmed through at his words. “He would have loved you.” 

They fall into a comfortable silence, and Ciri is content to listen to the creaking of branches and the sounds of animals beginning to prepare for the long, sleepy winter ahead. 

A sharp wind blows through the trees. Despite her own cloak, Ciri still shivers, wrapping her arms tightly around herself against the chill. She feels a warm hand on her shoulder. When she looks, Geralt has pulled back his own cloak, a silent invitation to shield her from the harsh winter winds. 

Ciri takes him up on it gladly.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to come say hi on [tumblr!](https://riviaiguess.tumblr.com/)


End file.
